Oops... I always forget to do this. Tolkien's wonderful mythos and his lovely characters are not mine but belong to him and his Estate. I'm only doing this for love and with respect.

Mirrors of the Soul

He looked down one last time upon his brother’s face. How he knew it was the last time he could not tell. He was not a visionary, like his brother. He had the practical intellect of a soldier. Yet he knew in his heart that he would never return to the White City, never look into Faramir’s eyes again.

Before him he saw only darkness and death. So he looked down for one long moment, drawing strength from his brother’s eyes, alight with tears. Faramir’s eyes had always held his soul in them for all the world to see. From the moment Boromir had peered over the edge of the baby’s cradle and seen those eyes, he had loved Faramir was a fierce, protective passion.

He remembered the day they had made paper boats to send off into the current of the Anduin, to freedom and adventures they had both longed to share. How Faramir's eyes had shone with delight. He remembered Faramir’s eyes the day their mother died. It was the same raw pain, the same desolation he saw now. He bent down a fraction toward his brother, wanting to say some word of hope, something to erase the pain in those eyes.

The words died in his throat. He saw, reflected in his brother’s eyes, the vision of darkness and death that had come to him. He tore his eyes from that mirror and, turning his horse away, left the White City forever.

~~~~

for starlight's birthday, with reference to one of her watercolors

A Gift

Boromir sat by the fire, restless. The others slept. He idly picked up a piece of wood. “Just another day,” he had told an inquisitive Merry, who had somehow found out that today was his birthday.

His fingers stroked the bit of wood. From the time Faramir had been quite small, he had always carved something for Boromir’s birthday. Boromir treasured each offering, from the first clumsy little wren to the last beautiful, fantastic dragon. Boromir took the knife from his belt.

When Merry woke the next morning, his hand encountered something lying beside him. Lifting it into the light, he saw a perfect carving of their faithful Bill, pack, pans and all.

A Touch

Gimli had mistrusted the Man since first he clapped eyes on him at Elrond’s Council. Tall and lordly, too proud, needing help but unwilling to ask for it. They were often at odds on the journey, Boromir used to commanding and the dwarf always willing to take offense. The Man seemed remote and sad, not an easy companion.

By Balin’s Tomb, all changed. Gimli sank to his knees, mourning the shining realm of crystal and mithril turned to ash. His companions were silent. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Compassion, endurance, courage for the task ahead flowed into him from that silent touch. He had known Boromir then for what he was, and nothing that happened later changed Gimli’s love.

The Bridge of Khazad-Dûm

In silence, they stood by Balin’s tomb. “They are coming,” the book whispered. The stones beneath them suddenly thrummed like the skin of a great drum. Doom, doom.

The clatter of many feet running. Orcs. With a sibilant, ringing caress, the Company drew their swords. Desperate howls of defeated enemies.

Doom, doom grew louder. Shadow and flame grew in Gandalf’s mind. On the bridge, it came, a creature of the depths and of nightmare. Thunder as the bridge broke asunder. Falling, the whip cracked and coiled, pulling the wizard into the abyss.

Tears fell on the stones, outside Gandalf’s tomb, in silence.

Thaw

He had reached Rivendell at dawn, wet and tired, shivering in the unseasonable frost that rimmed the golden leaves and slicked the pavingstones beneath his feet. He never felt warm after that. When he reached for the ring, a thing of fire, the ice in their eyes had entered him. On Caradhras, snow and suspicion, Aragorn’s eyes colder than the snow. He pled with them to turn south, but they pressed on. The frigid water of the pool, the mines a winter of grey and silver stone.

Now his blood seeped into the frozen ground. He was cold, so very cold. Then a hand, rough and warm, touched his face. Aragorn’s eyes, burning with love and grief, blotted out the sky above him.

Valour with Honour

Pippin felt insignificant. The vast hall was filled with shadows. The Steward, hunched over, grey hair veiling his face, looked up. His eyes burned with a loss too great to bear and hatred for all those who still lived. Yet Pippin glimpsed a shadow of Boromir’s nobility and passion in the wreck that was Denethor.

“You saw my son die?” Pippin’s throat closed in panic. How could he speak of it? His eyes fell to the horn in Denethor’s lap. Boromir, on his knees, had looked into Pippin’s eyes, pain mingling with love, courage with hopelessness. Then he had struggled to his feet.

Pippin stood up straighter and spoke through his fear. “I honor your son’s memory, for he was very valiant....”

Full Circle

All had gone except Arwen. Aragorn, full of years, and as full of wisdom and glory as of years, had laid himself down on the bed prepared for him in the House of Kings. She touched his face gently. “My husband, would you go before your time and leave all who love you?”

He smiled. “You know I do not leave all who love me. Be at peace. One waits for me who taught me much, of courage, duty, and of love. He taught me how to die.” Elessar closed his eyes and gladly left the circles of the world.

Vision

Elrond could see many things. He had seen them on Cerin Amroth, seen Arwen’s doom sealed as they stood entwined, elanor and niphrodel like small stars scattered at their feet. Like stars themselves, clothed in white and silver, they plighted their troth. Did they see the darkness around them?

Years had passed, that shadow gone. Now he joined their hands. Those who stood by saw all the stars of that midsummer evening blossom in the sky as Estel embraced his Evenstar, hope fulfilled. Elrond saw an abyss of time between them, a marble tomb and a green grave on Cerin Amroth. Beyond that he could not see. As he held their hands in that moment, Elrond saw many things. Yet he envied them.

Midsummer

It was the end of Midsummer’s Day. Elrond stood on the White Tower, looking West. The sun hung on the horizon, and one star shone in the sky. The wedding was the zenith of their triumph over the Shadow. All Middle-Earth rejoiced, full of songs and triumph.

Now the sun was sinking. Elrond saw, yet again, the evening awaiting his daughter and all the race of Men. Midsummer would turn to fall and withering, their brightness going down to another shadow.

He heard a step behind him. Then Faramir was beside him, looking to the West. “I come here to speak with my brother. There is life beyond the shadows, though we cannot see it.” After a moment, they turned and went back to the wedding feast.

Withered

They think that I am dead. Fools. I remember everything. They treated me gently, in spite of their insults. I saw they intended to plant that young usurper in my place. A spindly sapling, but not ill-favored. A promising sprig. I suppose it will survive its first winter in the courtyard.

I rest in Rath Dínen. All that I saw in my long years hung about me like ripe fruit, but they could not pluck it. They pitied me. That small one, Pippin the Wizard called him, said I looked ‘mournful.’ Cheek. They were the ones to be pitied.

A Moment Later

The Courtyard of the White Tree sparkled in the brilliant sunlight. The cheering of the crowd seemed to shake the very stones beneath his feet. The Steward of Gondor took a deep breath and closed his eyed for a moment. The sight of his people, happy and at peace, was almost too much to bear.

A moment later, he thought. If Aragorn had come crashing out of the trees a moment later, had not caused the Uruk captain to turn and drop his bow, he would have been a dead man. He would have died dishonoured and unforgiven. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Then, a moment later, Boromir stepped forward and set the crown on Aragorn’s bowed head. “My King,” he murmured, for Aragorn’s ears alone.

~~~~

Author's note: this was written for a "what might have been" challenge on LJ.

Honesty

Maggot didn’t like the looks of him and liked him trespassing on his land even less. Big and black he was, like his horse, and covered in a dark cloak with a hood that hid his face.

The voice came from out of the depths of the hood. “Have you seen Baggins?”

Suddenly he was terrified. The voice was cold as death and dark as the night that surrounded them. Maggot wanted to throw him off Frodo’s track. He thought of his wife, his sons, his farm. He heard a voice he barely recognized as his own say, “The Ferry….”

~~~~

Author's note: this was writing for a challenge. If someone had been honest or told someone something that they didn’t know in the original books, what might have been different?

Ties

Boromir twisted the red cords together, rubbed them gently where they lay looped around his belt. His heart twisted. Faramir, far away. Pippin’s eyes were bright with questions.

Boromir reached for a small pouch, tipping into his hand three more cords, discolored, worn almost to threads.

“These my brother gave me when first I rode to war. An old custom, a child’s fancy. One to tie me to life, one to Gondor, the last to those I love.”

“The ones on your belt?”

“The day I left for Rivendell. We need no cords to bind us, but I wear them.”

***

Faramir shivered in the water. His brother’s face was peaceful, but the cords…. Only two remained, stained the darker red of his brother’s life.

~~~~

Avon kindly gave me permission to drabble her beautiful story "Ties of Love"

here

for a challenge at HASA (to drabble one of your favorite stories). This is not quite a drabble and it doesn’t do this lovely story justice, but I liked the longer version better.

Faramir’s Answer, a Triolet

My brother, I remember not
your sin, if sin it was and not a sacrifice
by which our victory was bought.
My brother, I remember not
a single act of yours that aught
but love expressed and e’er the will to pay love’s price.
My brother, I remember not
your sin, if sin it was and not a sacrifice.

Theater Sonnet

We journey with them, sitting in the dark:
the hobbits and the men, both brave and bold,
the wizard, dwarf and elf. A tale well-told,
a mission clear; their choices clearly mark
a line between the good, the ill. So stark
the landscapes of both world and heart, the cold
and fire through which they pass, the ring of gold
a weight. I ask you, why did we embark
with them? Why did we cast our lot, our heart,
upon their chances? Stumbling in the light,
we leave. And what remains of it to take
with us? Just images, but with a part
to play on journeys through our own dark night.
Their love and will a kind of lembas make.

Stars and Swords

High and ordered are the stars of night
The Swan, the Archer, Eagle, Ship; I traced
their brilliant patterns with a child’s delight

The Swordsman, belt with shining jewels laced,
kept me and those I loved from harm, from dark.
His blade held high, it glimmered cold and chaste.

Swordsman, see this field? No patterns mark
the bodies where they fell. My sword robbed light
from eyes of those that came within its arc.

My sword is stained with bood, yours clean and bright.
High and ordered are the stars of night.

The Weight of the Dead

The pearl and silver crown upon my head,
the banner of the Tree and Stars waves bright.
“Behold the King,” the voices cry, and light
o’er all, the darkness broken, shadows fled.
Great battles won, the armies that I led
are now returned to peace and joy. The sight
of many brave companions from the fight
can lift my heart, free now from fear and dread.
And yet the voices of the dead are here
as well. I close my ears to hear the lost
and bring them near, hear some I loved, gone now.
I think about the price they paid. 'Twas dear
enough. I feel the weight and bear the cost
along with pearl and silver on my brow.

Cross-Currents

Memory has its currents, like a river’s flow.
You can float upon it gently, watching sparks of light,
Glints of summers past. He loved the sun. His face would glow,
His body like a sword in battle, swiftly cut the water, straight and bright.

Float upon the river gently, watch the sparks of light.
The day I taught him how to swim, he was unsure at first; but soon
his body moved just like his sword, cutting through the water keen and bright.
“Breathe!” I laughed, but I remembered when he almost drowned one afternoon.

The day I taught him how to swim, he cursed his clumsiness, and soon
Lost patience, used to watching over me, to teaching me instead of being taught.
“Just breathe,” I said, reminding him of when he almost drowned one afternoon.
“You could have died, and I can’t bear to lose you.” I shivered at the thought.

Though used to watching over me, to teaching me instead of being taught,
My lessons served him well. Osgiliath. Just four of all our company had reached the shore.
“You could have died. I cannot bear to lose you.” Shaking with the thought,
I held him close. Together on the bank, we watched the citadel of stars devoured by war.

My lessons served him well. From doomed Osgiliath, so few had reached the shore.
The river ran as black as blood. My brother’s eyes were stained with shadows and with shame.
I held him close as we stood on the bank and watched the citadel of stars devoured by war.
I felt his fear, his strength coiled on itself without an enemy that he could name.

The river was as black as blood. My eyes were misted o’er with shadows and with shame,
For I had failed him. Then the boat came near. I strained to see the burden that it bore.
I felt an echo of his fear in me, coiled on itself without an enemy that I could name.
Memory has its currents, and at times the waters cast you on an unexpected shore.

Had I failed him? The boat came near, and even now I longed to ease the burdens that he bore.
Then I saw his body on a flood of light, his face so beautiful the sight of it lodged in my heart,
And never left it since, though memory’s waters cast me on some unexpected shores.
He was at peace. The waters bore him on from me, but from that day we never were apart.

His body lay upon a flood of light, his face so beautiful the sight of it lodged in my heart.
The water formed a road between us. Past and future, life and death, but stations on the way; the ends
I cannot see. The waters bore him on, and yet I know that from that day we’ve never been apart.
So on the day each year I’ve sent my messengers upon the road to him with news of home, of friends.

The water is the road between us. Past and future, life and death, but stations on the way; our ends
unseen. Today in Anduin I held my newborn son, some drops of river’s blessing on his forehead laid.
Today, the messenger bears special news along the road to you: our line secure, the joy of friends
Who stood with me that now another of your name has joined us on the river-road, my Blade.

Today in Anduin I held my newborn son and drops of river’s blessing on his forehead laid,
And now I stand upon the tower alone at dusk, still looking at the river far below.
Another of your name has joined us on the road, my Blade, my Blade.
Memory has its currents, like a river’s flow.

~~~~

Author's notes: This was written as a Solstice gift for fileg and was written ‘inside’ her wondrous Anduin story cycle, the main pieces of which (for purposes of this poem) can be found here: Breathe. She kindly gave me permission to make this public.

The poem is an attempt at a form called a pantoum. Discussion of the form for those interested in weird poetry is here.